Vodka Before Sunrise
by southern cross
Summary: A Christmas Challenge fic from years back. There will be love and loss and alcohol, not to mention a very confused reporter. Christmas Sarkney style!


_Los Angeles, December 23rd_

Unlocking the front door, silently stepping into the dimly lit room, she made a point not to look at the Christmas tree standing proudly before her. Stopping to think how unfair it was would only be painful. What she needed now was strength, not pain. Tossing her keys and purse, almost flinching as the sound echoed off the cool tile of the island, she headed for where she hoped he would be waiting for her.

Each step forward was firm, determined, revealing nothing of the swirling emotions pooling her chest. With a deep breath she gripped the dark handle before her. Not one to disappoint, he was in fact waiting for her, a glass of wine breathing on the coffee table between them. Grateful fingers gripped the long stem and she was mindful not to spill a drop as she placed the glass against her lips.

Taking a bigger drink than she needed, she studied him. He hadn't said a word since she'd entered his study, just stood quietly at the window, his back to her. Their last conversation before she had made a hasty departure for CIA headquarters, had been full of rather unpleasant adjectives.

Sighing, she finished off her glass, the alcohol rushing to her head, it was near midnight and what energy she had was quickly draining. Making her way over to him, she slipped her arms around his waist, burying her face between his shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry."

Her temper had got the best of her and she had made foolish accusations, dredged up hateful memories and then left. It was a wonder he was still here.

"I should never had said those things."

The silence was unnerving. Pulling him a little tighter against herself, she pressed on.

"Everything is a mess. There may have been a breach... and they think Will may be compromised."

Her words were barely a whisper, what he heard was laced with pain. After she had taken off, leaving in the middle of a 'discussion' to head back to her former employers, he had prepared himself to get good and drunk.

On his way to the liquor cabinet, something caught his eye. It was her jacket, lying forgotten on the back of the dining room chair. He'd paused then. It was December, and regardless of what coast they were on, she would still have worn a coat to fight off cool breezes. Sydney Bristow took every precaution not to get sick. Whatever she'd heard on the phone had distracted her enough that she had left her jacket hanging on the chair. Picking up the leather garment, her scent assaulting him, all thoughts of drunken oblivion faded.

Opening a bottle of wine, he had headed back upstairs to make a few calls, nursing only one glass throughout, the jet was put on stand by and all the in house weapons were inventoried and rechecked. When she came back, with no doubt bad news, he would be waiting.

Slipping a hand over the entwined ones on his waist, he squeezed them gently.

"When do we leave?"

All the air left her body and her frame shook as sobs threatened to take over. Feeling him turn, his arms coming to wrap around her, she clung to him.

"Are you sure? I mean you don't have to."

Shaking his head at her, he simply pressed a kiss to her temple.

"The plane is on stand-by. We can be in the air within the hour."

He didn't ask why the CIA hadn't extracted the man on their own or why anyone would still be interested in a discredited reporter after so many years, he just knew she needed him.

Will Tippin was the last piece of a Sydney Bristow he had never really known. His Sydney was broken and mended, as much as he had been, and together the new pieces fit. It was for that Sydney, as much as this one, that he would do this.

Tilting her head up, noting the unshed tears in her eyes, he pressed a kiss to her lips.

"We'll get him."

_December 24th outskirts of Milwaukee_

"Explain to me again how exactly you became part of this 'rescue'."

He was only half listening to the blonde behind him, sore hands were skimming over the destroyed door. Testing the weight of the rubble behind it. With a sigh he turned and began peeling off his combat gear.

"So what did she...what are you doing?"

Looking over at Tippin for the first time, the smirk came as naturally and with a bit more malice than needed, as did his words.

"It appears I am getting more comfortable. I suggest you do the same."

The dumbfounded expression was rather comical, but he was too tired to manage anything other than a frustrated shake of his head. He was well aware that a mumbled question was impending and rather than listen to the stammering, he avoided the situation with an explanation.

"Although we managed to avoid direct contact with the grenade the cellar door was not so lucky. My com is destroyed as is my cell. Until someone digs us out from the other side we seem to be trapped."

At the jaw dropping he had reached his fill of the man, and turned his back. How Sydney had ever managed his presence for so long was a mystery to him. He was nearly as bad as that Flinkman, although lacking the genius qualities that excused so much.

"But Sydney is gonna find us right? Of course she will. She wouldn't just leave us here."

Yes, of that he was certain. She would come for him. Together they had entered the small house, each leading a team. He had opted for the main area and basement, while she had taken the upstairs. As usual their timing was impeccable, no sooner had he encountered Tippin, startling him on the top step leading to the cellar, had gunfire erupted.

The staccato shots had forced both men down the stairs, over the com he heard Sydney briefly engage and begin to clear her floor. From the hall one the intruders bared down on them, with only a second to radio his position and to inform the team that he had the package. Grabbing the reporter, he shoved him none to gently, back down the stairs he had just ascended.

The close quarters and confused civilian gave his opponent the upper hand, but he returned shot for shot, as the heavy footsteps over head signaled his back up would be arriving. Sensing their loss, the masked intruders had resorted to desperate, and rather cowardly measures, in a last ditch effort to take out Tippin.

Hearing the familiar click of the grenade engaging as it soared through the air towards them, his body reacted on pure instinct. Twisting and turning until they were both clear of the impending blast.

Once the dust had settled and he had checked for blood and bones, he had begun his circuit of the room.

"So I take it you are still together?"

Through silence and ruminations he had nearly forgotten he was not alone. 'Still together,' interesting observation. Arching an eyebrow, he eyed Tippin as he begun riffling through some boxes labeled "damage control."

"I know it's here. I put it here...Ah ha!"

Curious as to what could have garnered such a joyous reaction he leaned back against the wall, crossing his now bare arms, in anticipation of what would follow.

Of all the things he had expected to see, an arm offering him a full bottle of vodka, was not even on the list. The eyes that held him were calm, clear, it was as though the man who had entered this room with him had vanished. Perhaps he had underestimated Tippin.

Tequila. In most instances a filthy drink, but for one occasion when he had thoroughly enjoyed the substance, he nearly cringed at the long pulls Tippin was indulging himself in. Yes, he had underestimated him. Wary of the fact, he managed a small sip, enjoying for a moment the burn in his throat, fighting his body's rejection of the substance. Knowing that the next time it wouldn't be so bad.

"I bet you are wondering how I knew you were together huh?"

Seeing no reason to mask his curiosity, Tippin's taunt.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

Sipping carefully from the bottle, measured drinks he could manage, he had no intention of getting drunk.

"Then I will have to tell you a story. But first a toast."

A toast? Wondering if the man was drunk already, he nearly asked the question, when eyes bore down on him, as calm and collected as they had previously been. In for a penny in for a pound, right?

Mimicking the movements across from him, he raised his hand.

"Good. A toast it is. To the end."

Puzzled by his choice of words, he none the less joined in the maudlin salute.

"To the end."

Both drank silently, and deeper than needed, but the need to know now was overriding his training. Curious as a cat he was. It had nearly killed him several times, but as he settled more comfortably onto an old washing machine to hear the tale, he knew it was the satisfaction that had always brought him back.

"I read about it in USA Today. Just skimming the bylines as I did every Tuesday morning, when I found it. I debated whether or not it was worth the risk. After all she was my best friend. One of the people I loved most in the world and I knew that she would need someone there. Someone to stand by her and lock the door so she could cry in peace."

Ah, so it was becoming clearer now.

"I booked a flight that night and by morning I was standing outside her back door until I over heard the most interesting conversation."

Will Tippin was not a risk taker. Not anymore. Not after plunging a knife into the chest of the woman he had loved. No, his life was monotonous, and he was comforted by the very dullness of it.

The past twenty four hours had produced the most adrenaline in his system outside a Packers game, since he had laid eyes on her last. Standing outside the back door of her condo, carefully avoiding the guards patrolling the perimeter, he wondered what the hell had possessed him to take such a risk.

Then he saw her. Slipping into the kitchen, clutching an empty platter, he noted the tension knotting her shoulders, and the worry darkening her eyes. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

So caught up in his own thoughts, he missed the first tear that slipped down her cheek, her palm pressing anxiously against her eye in a futile attempt to keep them at bay.

No sooner had he realized she was caving and she would need someone there, than he saw a movement come from the corner of the room. A man. Where he had come from, he didn't know, but his presence was neither startling nor intrusive to her. He was welcome.

Arms wrapped around her frame and he felt a flame of jealously lite up his dusty heart. Those should have been his arms wrapped around her, not this stranger. Words, muffled by the glass he was ducking behind, slipped from her lips.

"I can't believe he's gone."

Shamed that he was thinking of himself when she was so obviously in pain, he took a deep breath.

"I keep hoping that it was all a mistake. After all I was dead for two years, right?"

The laugh he heard was brittle, one he had heard ringing in his own ears so many drunken nights after he realized Francie was well and truly lost to him.

"That you were."

Hardly believing his own ears, he pressed his face further against the glass, not caring if he was caught. Taking in the scene before him. That son of a b.

"But he's not coming back is he?"

Sark. She was asking Sark for resolution and seeking comfort in his arms. Watching with eyes that felt detached from his body he watched hands cup her face and thumbs wipe away falling tears.

"Not this time."

A part of him was screaming. Lie to her! Give her hope! But a larger part of him knew that she needed the truth. That the truth would help the pain heal. Help her say goodbye and if it had been him he would have said the same thing.

"No, not this time."

Her words were small, lost in the air around her. There was a flurry of more tears, deep breaths, and then a question.

"How do I do it?"

Do what? His thoughts merged into Sark's words and he shuddered at the intimate connection.

"How do I say goodbye to my Father?"

The one question he knew would come, that he knew he had no answer for.

"The same way you said hello to me. With your heart and soul and your head held high."

And that was that. He didn't need to see anymore. Taking a step back, he turned and retraced his steps back out of her yard. There was nothing left for him to do, the right man was with her. The man who had answered her question

"Hell of a story."

Drinking far deeper than he should, Sark felt the effects of the alcohol begin to creep in.

"That it is."

"And so will this one."

"Is that so?"

Noting that Tippin's was nearly half gone, he found himself amazed that he could hold so much liquor. Then he was amazed that he was amazed, startled then by his own half empty bottle. Morbid sobriety had fast turned into wondrous inebriation.

"A story for the ages. Me a washed up reporter, trapped in the ruined basement of my house, with a little, British cocky son of a bitch."

The smile on his face was one he had shared with few other than Sydney.

"I can assure you there is nothing 'little' about me."

The snorts of laughter across from him would at another time in his life offended him and blood would have been shed, but now he simply snickered along.

"A story only to be told around a campfire."

Eyebrows raised nearly to the soft line of hair on his forehead, he took another long drink before pointing the bottle at the man sliding to the floor across from him.

"You think this is a scary story? I have a story for you then. One that will scare a year off your life."

At the doubting look, he merely smirked.

"But first a toast."

With his hand held high, not nearly as steady as it had previously been, but quite still compared to one before him, he offered up his toast.

"To the beginning."

"TO THE BEGINNING!"

Rolling his eyes at the exaggerated enthusiasm he began to tell of a night far scarier than this one.

People who paced irritated him. It was a disgusting habit, that showed an enormous lack of self-control. The fact that he was now engaging in said activity had no real baring on his opinion on the matter.

Disgusted with himself he forced his feet to stop moving, running his hands tiredly through his hair. There was no other way around this. It had to be done. No sooner had he convinced himself of it once more, than the door he stood outside swung open.

Frozen, startled at the sudden intrusion into his thoughts, he quickly disengaged his hand from the curls at the base of his neck.

"Mr. Sark."

Drawing up to his full height, slowly slipping his hands into the pocket of his pants. Relieved that the older man had not shot him on sight, he knew that there was every likelihood that he would not survive this night.

"Mr. Bristow."

They stood like that for a moment. Appraising, judging, noting the locations and quantities of the arms each carried.

"Was there something you wanted?"

Wanted? Yes, there was most definitely something he wanted.

"I wanted to have a word with you."

Seconds passed and he felt the heavy weight of the Bristow glare, but he did not falter. At the slight nod and opening of the door, he stepped cautiously into the entry. Careful not to brush against the wall or the man, he waited for the door to close, and was then led into the living room.

As each took up residence on rather dark and uninviting leather, he spared a glance at the cold furnishings. Irina would not have found the decor to her taste, but then perhaps that was why they were chosen.

"I am curious as to what could have possibly required a visit at such an hour and location."

And so it is.

"It concerns your daughter."

The physical change was apparent. Every sense was attuned to him and he felt Jack Bristow begin thinking of ways to inflict pain on his person.

"I am certain that nothing you may think you know about my daughter would come as a surprise to me."

Of all the things he could think to say. Sometimes the arrogance of those around him startled even him. Bristow, Derevko, and for some unknown reason that sniveling prat Vaughn.

His breath exhaled in what could only be conceived of as an ungraceful snort, not that he would ever admit that of course.

"This information is sure to be new to you."

Perhaps some of the arrogance had rubbed off on him, but really, how could the man be expected to know every aspect of Sydney's life.

"Is that a fact?"

This was getting him nowhere. Sitting up, allowing his wrists to hang from his knees, if only allowing them easier access to the weapon strapped to his left ankle.

"It is. I am here to inform you that Sydney and I have been seeing each other for some time now, with every intention to continue doing so, and it was time you were made aware"

"You didn't?!"

Jerked back to the present. He lazily focused his gaze across from him, only to find that view had changed. At some point both men had managed to make their way to the floor across from the now destroyed door.

"I did."

Smiling into the bottle as Tippin mumbled incoherent phrases of what he assumed to be praise.

"Just like that?"

So he had dropped the idea in his lap. Without warning or fanfare he had announced their relationship, but he had not seen any other way to go about it.

"Just like that."

"So tell me, did his face go all red and did you see that little vein in his temple?"

At the shake of his head, he felt the man next to him dissolve into laughter, he supposed it was rather funny, but was there really a need to roll on the floor like that?

"I would have given my entire savings to see the look on his face."

Not bothering to wonder at how little that would have amounted to, both were startled by a muffled banging above their heads.

Rising, he craned his neck, the noises were not random, they were too deliberate. No this was something more.

"What is that?"

Once again he had forgotten that Tippin was in the room.

"It's Sydney."

Turning, he scanned the room. Finding what he was looking for in the farthest corner of the room, he only half heard the question thrown at his back.

"Is that like Morse code?"

Picking up the slightly rusty golf club, he gave it a swing, just to test the weight.

"A version. It's one that we modified. One that only we would recognize. Just in case."

With that, he lifted the club over his head, and with a series of short and long taps, gave his response. Head cocked to the side, he couldn't help the smirk that crossed his features, thirty minutes indeed.

'I'm timing you.'

BANG!

"What was that?"

Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to rile her up when she was his only way out, but he could blame the alcohol when the time came.

"What did you say?"

Putting forth his blankest of masks, he merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Not much."

"Why don't I believe you?"

With another shrug he dropped back next to his rather empty bottle.

"I swear if you piss her off..."

He heard very little after that. Just the mention of a pissed off Sydney had his thoughts wandering.

Opening the door, he knew at once she was there. The air around him was charged as he stepped into the living room, pausing to study her fire lit profile.

"Where have you been?"

Scratching at the too long curls attacking his collar, he began to shrug out of his jacket.

"I think you know where I've been."

She had turned to face him then, not able to read her face, he simply accepted that fact that she was probably angry.

"I had the most interesting phone call."

Very angry. Not allowing the icy tone to deter his steps, he made his way into the kitchen. With a bottle of water in hand, he returned to what could only be described as a battle field.

"Imagine that."

The sarcasm wasn't wise, but he was too tired to play this game tonight.

"How could you!?"

There it was. Gone was the cold fury he detested, it was a tactic better suited to her parents. No, he preferred her with the fire in her eyes, and the slight flush creeping up her neck, when she became truly angry.

"How could I not?"

She stood in front of him now, her jaw locking visibly as she fought to control her temper.

"He's my Father."

Rolling his eyes, his gaze settled on her as he took a long drink. Carefully replacing the cap, then dropping it onto the table next to them, he made quite a show of unbuttoning his cuffs.

"Sydney we have been over this already."

Rolling up the left sleeve to the elbow, then the right, he heard her deep breath and knew that if he glanced up at that moment her look would be deadly.

"That's right. And I thought we agreed that this wasn't the right time."

Conversations, memories, it was all a matter of perception. Weary suddenly of it all, he turned away.

"And I thought we agreed that if it was so important I could tell him myself."

Angry that his words were a whisper around them, frustrated he spun away from her so quickly he missed the startled expression on her face. Heading away from the echoes, if he had looked back, he would have seen the panic written on her face. Almost reaching the hallway, he was unable to miss the force of her body colliding into his back.

"What the hell..."

His words were swallowed up by her lips, full and demanding. Hesitating for a moment, what had changed? Unable to process the question, her hands were doing wicked things to his rapidly hardening cock.

"Sydney, what...?"

"Shhh...Don't let your mouth get in the way."

Smirking down at her bent head, he groaned as her tongue began to lav at the hollow of his throat. Pressed against the wall, her fingers digging almost painfully into his biceps, he tried to peel his arms away from the plaster, only to have her grip tighten.

Slipping a thigh in between her legs, he thrust roughly against her, his reward was a desperate wail in his neck. 'fuck.'

Had he spoken aloud? He didn't know, all he knew was the feel of her hand appearing suddenly, sliding over his cock was driving him wild. Her lips on his skin were sending electric sparks through his body. That he knew, of that he was certain, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough.

"Enough."

Yanking her hand from his body, his breath a painful hiss as her nails raked over the sensitive flesh, he spun their bodies, until she was now pressed against the wall.

A kiss, a kiss for the ages sent his head spinning, and then his hands were at her waist, bunching up the fabric of her skirt. Greedy fingers were working to remove his belt, but this was for him to do. Smacking her hands away, he released his cock from its fabric prison.

Hard, so hard, dropping to his knees, her body falling along with his, he thrust against her spread legs. His aching cock straining against satin, the only barrier keeping him from the warmth he craved.

Her fingers tugged at his curls, his hands cupped her bottom, her teeth pulled at his lip, his tongue raked over hers. 'Enough,' it seemed that was the only word that applied tonight, he pushed the sinful scrap of material to the side and slid his cock in with a groan.

Pleas falling from her lips were lost as the blood rushing into his head drowned out the rest of the world. Biting down on her neck, he let her bottom fall all the way to the floor, pressing her knees open as wide as they would go. Drawing back, he found her brown eyes clouded over, her fingers pressing lightly into his cheek, as her thumb slid into his mouth, he lost what control he had, slamming viciously into her.

What he wanted was for this to last forever, hanging onto the edge of an orgasm, knowing that finally falling over would mean as much to her as it did to him. Never would he let that go.

"fuck me. fuck me harder."

There were few things in this world powerful enough to make him ache, throb, give up a part of himself to have it again and again. Dirty whispers in his ear from her fucking perfect lips was one of them.

"As.." His hips pulled away. "You.." Slamming back in so hard, he saw tears coat the brown orbs he lost himself in. "Wish.."

Thrusting in rapidly, hips circling counter clockwise, as was his preference, he felt his balls begin to tighten. Soon enough, soon enough, it would be here, but not yet, not yet.

Hands on her thighs, his cock screaming in agony as the strained fabric scraped him raw, one long finger sought out her clit. Never one to travel alone, he harshly forced her journey along.

"Look at me.."

Could that voice be his? Tight, taught, like her dripping cunt.

"Only me."

Those words were ones he had spoken in his head a thousand times the power of them an aphrodisiac in their own right. Hearing them now, knowing that this coupling was a creation new to them, he wondered how he had never lived without them before.

One final scrape of his perfectly manicured nail on the bundle of nerve his tongue lived to map out and her eyes simply rolled into the back of her head.

"Sark...Sark...fuck...mmm...shit..."

Dirty girl. Foul mouth...

"fuck."

Orgasm swept over him, so hard, so fast his body shuddered and his head fell abruptly onto her shoulder.

She was whispering in his ear then, the words barely registering in the afterglow.

"Important, so very important"

"SARK!"

Abruptly ripped from his rather vivid memory, in a blink of an eye he was standing, not liking the idea of Tippin standing over him.

"Where were you?"

Simply ignoring the question, his attention was riveted on the buzzing coming from overhead.

"What is that?"

Really, it was alcohol that voiced the question out loud. So perhaps he deserved the rather obvious eye roll, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and sent a sneer back in response.

"It started a couple of minutes ago, but you were, well where ever you were."

"It sounds like a drill."

As if on cue, a long blade burst through the ceiling and both men jumped back, casting wary glances up, as though more pieces of metal were set to descend upon them.

"Good call."

Within moments a circle was cut, and they leaned lazily against the wall as the hole fell through.

"Never did like this place that much."

Humor, even at moments such as this, was not lost on him, and he didn't hold in the snort that traveled its way up his spine.

In response, he raised his near empty bottle, the clinking glass echoing around them as together they topped off the last bit of their spirit. No sooner had they finished when a long black rope fell down through the hole and a very welcome, very familiar voice shouted down at them.

"You ok down there?"

Tippin, apparently stunned by the voice calling out to them merely blinked a response.

"We are."

"Good. Grab on and we'll pull you up. Oh, and by the way..."

Sensing her response, he walked over to the rope taking a hold of it as he directed his too bright eyes up to the only person he felt comfortable giving the upper hand.

"Yes."

"28 minutes."

_December 25th Sunrise over the Midwest_

"Merry Christmas, Sark."

Wrapping her arms around his waist much as she had hours ago, she pressed her face once again into his back, this time exhaustion weighing her down.

"Happy Christmas, Sydney."

Smiling against the now dirty tee shirt, she would never admit it but she loved the smell of his sweat, especially after a mission like this.

Fingers once again wrapped themselves over her entwined ones, and she pressed a kiss into his neck, picturing the way the sunlight from the window would be lighting up the blue of his eyes. Sunlight, clouds, everything was different from the sky.

"We did good."

And they really had. Will was safe. On his way back to LA, until they could find him a new place to settle. There was talk of re-evaluating his status, maybe give Will Tippin another chance at living. Talk started by the man in front of her.

Something had transpired between the two down there, but neither would speak of it. The alcohol on their breaths may have had something to do with it, but she knew she would uncover the truth eventually.

The thought thrilled her. Having her friend back in life now, after she had lost so much, it was almost to much to hope for.

"We always did."

Sark. Pressing herself tighter against him, knowing that she was using his strength to stay standing, she knew it was ok. Ok, to need him. Somehow he had snuck his way into her life, her heart, her soul and she depended on him to keep her standing straight. He had never let her down.

Ducking under his arm, leaning back, covering the window he had been so interested in, she rested her hands on his chest. Neither pulling, nor pushing. Feeling his hands come to settle on her hips, he had said once that he loved the very curve of her, she smiled up at him.

"We always will."

What she saw in his eyes then surprised her, but before she could name it, his head was buried in her neck and her arms instinctively wrapped themselves around him. Caught in a fierce embrace she realized there was no other place she would rather spend Christmas morning.

In case you were wondering these were the requirements given.

**Characters**: Sark and Sydney.  
**Things Seen**: Sark telling Jack that he is dating Sydney, Will and Sark toasting on Christmas Eve, and a character death.  
**Things Avoided**: Sarkney fluff or pregnancies

So, I have never killed anyone in my fics before which was hard! But I think it worked ok. And I like to think that the basement parts were more snarky rather than fluffy. I wore down quite a few nails over this one and I hope everyone enjoys it.

Sara


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